


in the end

by pixiedusts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Feelings Porn, Human Castiel (Supernatural), I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, M/M, but it’s ok because Castiel isn’t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23819833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiedusts/pseuds/pixiedusts
Summary: They won, it’s over. Dean’s trying to settle into the new normal, but it’s not always easy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	in the end

**Author's Note:**

> this was spawned from my thoughts on the Ideal Supernatural Ending, and ended up a LOT angstier and sadder than I intended. Enjoy!

Thud. Thud. Thud.

_It’s the sound of his feet hitting the floor as he runs, the sound of his heart bouncing against the wall of his chest, the sound of his brain pulsating and pounding in his skull._

_Dean presses his hands against his forehead, tries to push the pain away for at least a few seconds because it’s like he can’t see through it. There’s a bloody taste in his mouth, down the back of his throat, on his lips. He knows it’s spatter from someone else’s body, knows he has bigger things at hand, and still feels nauseous because of the metallic taste against his tongue. His palms feel wet against his face; sweat, he assumes. He’s wrong._

_His eyes meet blood when he pulls back his hands, somehow still shining crimson red in the blacked out room. He feels no pain aside from the burning in his legs and can’t remember being hurt, so why is his skin drenched in blood? Who’s blood is he covered in? Why the hell can he see it when he can’t even see the outlines of his own appendages in the dark?_

_There’s an alarm blaring loud enough that it could be right next to his ear, but at the same time so distorted and faint that it could be a thousand miles away. The screaming still rings in his ears, the cries for help, the wails. Dean swallows and tries to will the sounds away, squeezes his eyes shut even though he can’t see anything that isn’t blood._

_A way out. Need a way out._

_A strip of light hums in the distance, recognisable as a yellow hue glowing from beneath a door. Could be fire. Could be angels. Could be salvation._

_Dean heads towards it, reminds himself to take deep breaths lest his lungs give out before he reaches any semblance of hope. He trips over something and he knows it’s a body, feels sick to his stomach because he’s the only one left alive. It’s the end of the world and he’s the only one still alive. Why?_

_The light beams brighter as he closes in; it doesn’t crackle like fire, doesn’t give off a piercing frequency like angels. Salvation._

_He’s finally there and grips the doorknob, the metal burns his hands but he’s so close. It twists in his hands and he goes to pull it open, to leave, to survive, when something tugs at the back of his shirt._

_The gun is long gone, knocked out of Dean’s hands what feels like hours ago, straight into a heap of burning bodies. His knife is still under wraps, though, and he yanks it from his jacket pocket with more vigor than Dean’s ever possessed. He shifts and is about to lash it across the thing’s throat but blue eyes stare up at him, honest and loving and dying out._

_Blood pools around Cas’s body where he’s slumped against the floor. He clutches the puncture in his gut and his breathing heaves._

_“How could you do this to me?” that deep voice that was once so strong is no longer anything more than a croak._

_Dean looks between the blood spilling from Cas’s wound and his agonised face. Bile crawls up his dry throat and he swallows it down._

_“I-I didn’t. It wasn’t me, Cas. I swear.”_

_Cas laughs, but it’s an empty, brittle sound caused by his lungs collapsing from the puncture. “You hurt everybody around you, Dean. This?” he looks down at his body, “this was my fate from the moment we met. You may not have plunged the knife, but you set it on its path.”_

_Dean sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”_

_“So what? Sorry doesn’t bring back Sam. It doesn’t bring back Jack. He was our son and you left him to die, and now you’re trying to leave me.”_

_Dean’s collapsing to his knees before he can even think about it. The alarm’s still roaring, the sound ear-splitting and Dean’s sure he feels them bleed. He’s right by the door, right by the strip of light that offers survival, hope, life. It’s dimming by the second, though, and Dean knows he should go, but he’s never been good at doing what he’s supposed to. He turns his back on the door and locks his eyes on Cas._

_“I’d never—Cas, I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave you.” He grips Cas’s face in his hands, leans forward to press a blood-drenched kiss to his mouth. “Never leave you.”_

_Cas smiles and his eyes go soft, and for a moment Dean knows him again. He’s not the injured, broken shell of a man that gripped at his clothes not a minute ago; he’s the tender-hearted rebel that broke every rule in the book for Dean, tore down his walls, made him fall deeper in love than he ever thought he could._

_The light behind the door dims to nothing, and with it disappears the life in Cas’s eyes. His lifeless frame falls against Dean’s front, head lolling against his shoulder, and he’s gone._

_“No, no,” Dean shouts, “Cas. No, Cas. Cas!”_

The alarm shuts off abruptly and the darkness gives way to a soft light that Dean realises is now only being stifled by his eyelids. The stench of death and burning bodies has been overtaken by the crisp spring air wafting in through the window. Dean chokes out a gasp, relieved, and welcomes the smell, takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. 

Sweat born of pure fear has soaked the back of his shirt and the crown of his head but he’s home, he’s safe, he’s okay.

The sight of Castiel’s eyes boring into him is seared into his brain, though, as well as the sight of him curled up on the floor with his blood pooling and congealing around him as he rotted and bled out. 

Dean brings his hands up and presses the heels of them into his eyes in a feeble attempt to scare off the memory. He knows they fade with time—the many other ways he’s seen Cas die in his dreams are far off enough now that if he distracts himself, the mental images tend to leave him be. 

He’s one of the lucky ones—Dean knows this as surely as he knows his own damn name. The fight against Chuck caused more bloodshed than Dean was able to keep track of and more pain than he knew how to safely deal with. Families and lives were ripped apart and if he lets himself think, lets himself really dwell on it, a painful weight always seems to form in his stomach to accompany the realisation that when it really mattered, he was useless.

Dean does count himself a fortunate son of a bitch in the end, though. He feels the warmth of his luck bloom in his chest and his heartbeat picks up when he turns his head and sees those all-familiar tufts of warm brown hair smothering the pillow next to his. 

Cas’s head is buried below the duvet for the most part, but Dean’s itching to see him, knows it’s what he needs to completely pull him back to earth. It’s in Cas’s warm gaze that he manages to find any semblance of peace, every time without fail.

Reaching over, Dean doesn’t bother to try to stabilise his still-trembling hands; he knows Cas won’t judge, won’t look at him funny, won’t think less of him for being so affected by a mere dream. He pulls the duvet cover down from around Cas’s face and lets it pool lower down around his shoulders. 

A quivering but ultimately calming breath smooths its way out of Dean as he looks on at Cas sleeping, serene and unassuming. Alive. He sees dark eyelashes fanned out over fair skin, admires the way they flutter against the new light. Realising that Cas is stirring awake, Dean can’t help but feel bad. 

He pushes himself up onto an elbow to peer at the digital clock on Cas’s bedside table. 7:43AM. Not too early. Dean feels a little less guilty.

Cas shifts a little, hauling Dean’s attention right back to him. He cracks open a narrow eye and squints at the room’s hue, only made so bright by the sunlight gleaming in through the thin blinds. His eye shuts for a brief second before both are opening. Cas doesn’t bother to look around the room, his eyes falling straight onto Dean. 

“Hello,” croaks Cas, smiling small as he gathers the duvet up tighter around him, settling further down into its warmth.

Dean’s chest actually aches with adoration. 

Going from seeing Cas as some dying, barely-there, broken thing curled up at his feet to this comfortable, laid back, untroubled _human_ almost gives Dean actual whiplash. He tries not to dwell on the events served up by his subconscious, though, and doesn’t have to force himself even a little to focus on the now.

Dean drops down from resting his head on his hand, elbow still having been propped up, and nestles his head into his pillow. Rested, unwavering hands reach out to grip his shirt and pull him closer, and he’s cuddling in against Cas’s side without giving it a thought.

Craving more touch, Dean slings an arm across the thin waist he’s huddled up against and cranes upwards, burrowing his face into the dip between Cas’s shoulder and neck. The all too familiar smell of his skin takes over all Dean knows, and again, he feels like one of the lucky ones.

He presses his lips against a strong shoulder and lets them drag, wanting a taste even through the dewy haze of the early morning. A hand winds its way into the short strands at the back of Dean’s head, and he forces himself to rise at the touch. Cas’s hand slides around to cradle the side of his face, and Dean can’t help but turn and nuzzle into the touch like an affection starved animal. He tentatively kisses Cas’s palm and looks up, levelling him with a gaze. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean mumbles, voice gruff. He briefly remembers a time when he could just glance at Cas and look away, where he didn’t feel absolutely compelled to revise Cas’s features every chance he got, forever fearful that it might be the last. Dean often rationalises this to himself by thinking that losing someone as many times as he’s lost Cas will do that to you. 

Banishing the macabre thought in lieu of better, more promising things, Dean leans up and in. He bears down and presses their lips together, shifting his body above the other man’s, slotting a leg between Cas’s as they carelessly fall open a little. A warm hand takes root on Dean’s bicep and he shudders more than he cares to admit, pulling away. “Sometimes wish your handprint was still there, you know.” 

“That is...absurd,” Cas decides, scolding.

“What? That was our meet-cute, man.”

“Well,” Cas’s hand wraps back into Dean’s hair and he slowly bends his legs, fitting them around Dean’s waist, “I can think of some other marks I could leave on you. They’re far less unsightly.”

There’s a sudden curling in the pit of Dean’s stomach as Cas resituates himself, pressing them flush together. “Yeah?” he gulps.

“Mm.” The hand on the back of Dean’s head pulls him down, and Cas takes his lips again briefly before pulling away. “I had a dream about you, actually. There were less clothes involved, though.” 

Dean tenses up before he can help himself. _Hot. I saw you curl up and die in mine._

The way Cas can read his body like the back of his own hand is Dean’s undoing sometimes. It’s usually in a way that’s a lot more pleasurable than this though, and it usually ends in an orgasm rather than Cas pulling away from his lips the second he feels Dean freeze above him. 

“Hey, you okay?” His brow quirks and maps Dean’s features with a look, attention focusing on quivering lips searching for words. 

“I’m—yeah. I’m awesome. You were saying something about less clothes.” Dean leans down in a feeble attempt to catch Cas’s lips and distract him. 

A hand pushing at his shoulder halts his movement. “Dean,” Cas presses, swiping his hand down the plain of his broad back, stopping about half way down, “you’re sweating.” 

“Why can't you ever just drop it?” scoffs Dean, rolling off the other man. He sits up and resituates himself on the edge of the bed, pulling his sodden shirt over his head and throwing it in the direction of their hamper. Even facing away from Cas, he can picture the puzzled expression on his face, and it makes him feel like shit. “Way to kill the mood. Jesus.”

Dean’s always forced himself to be the strong one. Whether he was standing by Cas’s side, or Sam’s, or even Jack’s, he’s willed himself to keep it together for them. They’re out of the woods now, though; Chuck’s dead, he’s safe. There’s no great adversary for him to remain fierce against anymore, but some habits are hard to break. 

The mattress groans behind him and Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He hears Cas shift, body moving against the crisp sheets. Then, there’s an arm curling around him and a weighted chin resting on his shoulder.

“Talk to me,” Cas utters and moves to peck Dean’s back. He feels a stubbly cheek being smoothed over his skin and Dean barely notices himself leaning back into the touch.

He’s still getting used to these elements of their new dynamic. Dean’s reluctant to call it a relationship—they’ve had a relationship for years, and it’s been nothing like this. Their relationship has been tumultuous and turbulent, and Dean still remembers times when he couldn’t even look Cas square in the face without wanting to punch him. This thing between them now, though, is nothing like that. Dean feels calmer, level headed and more serene than he ever has. Every time he meets Cas’s eye, it’s like a punch to his own gut in the best possible way.

Close to the end, they’d been under Chuck’s thumb. Dean had damned Billie and anyone else who’d convinced Jack that he was capable of going up against him and winning. It’d felt like the world was crumbling around them, and in the middle of the bedlam and the mayhem, Dean had looked at Cas.

His heart had been in his throat, stomach sinking. Dean still sees the terrified look in Cas’s eyes like the image is forever etched onto the backs of his eyelids, still feels the touch of their skin together where he’d reached over and gripped Cas’s hand, terrified that it could’ve been his last chance. What he still remembers most, though, is clutching Cas close to him when it was all over, embracing him tightly, never wanting to let go, before nosing his way across Cas’s cheek to press their lips together. The relief Dean had felt was immeasurable.

Relief’s the furthest thing from what he’s feeling now, though. Cas’s tender touch makes regrettable reproach rear up inside him. Dean’s stronger than this. He’s fought monsters and demons and cosmic entities, his eyes aren’t supposed to sting when he’s dared to talk about his feelings with the one person who knows him better than he knows himself.

The embrace around him loosens, and Dean has to stop himself picturing the dejected look he knows is on Cas’s face. He reaches up to grip Cas’s arm before he can pull away.

“Hey.” Dean winces at the tremor in his voice, but pushes on. “Sorry.”

Cas relaxes under his touch and Dean feels a little better. Two strong arms wind around him, and Cas pushes closer again. “Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me. You know that.”

God, Dean’s such a dick and Cas is always so understanding that his chest throbs. 

“Yeah, I—I know, it’s just—“ mumbles Dean, “I had a nightmare. Bad one.” He leans back towards Cas, resting against his bare chest.

Dean feels the press of lips against the crown of his head and sighs, infinitely calmer. “Didn’t realise you were still having them.”

“I haven’t been. First one in months. I’ll get over it, Cas. Don’t worry about me.” One of Cas’s hands moves down to rub against his arm, a clear gesture of attempted comfort. Dean wishes he could actually derive relief from it rather than just feel the ever-present pit of fragility churning in his stomach.

The tender touch makes his heart lurch in his chest and Dean casts his eyes skyward, trying to suppress the burn of unshed tears that taunts him behind his eyes. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cas murmurs, low voice sounding from just behind Dean’s ear.

“Do what?”

“Pretend you’re okay if you aren’t. It’s me, Dean.”

What he intends to say is something to the tune of _“I’m fine. Stop worrying”,_ but the words die out on their painful, false crawl up his throat.

“I’m scared.” Dean practically flinches at the way his voice sounds, quiet and on the verge of cracking. “I know it’s stupid, right? I don’t even really know what I’m scared of. It’s just, every time I look at you, or Jack, or Sam I just think— _sure, we survived that, but what if something else happens?_ —I’m so used to things—people—being taken from us. We’re safe, we’re okay, but it’s like I’m just constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

Cas unwinds his arms from around Dean, and that unbridled fear returns. He’s sure that it’s finally happened, Cas has gotten sick of him and his woe-is-me defeatist attitude, and his whiny venting monologue was the final straw. Grace all burned out, he’s human now. Cas has realised that the world’s his oyster and the last thing he needs is Dean’s pessimism dragging him down. 

Dean sucks in a deep breath as he feels a shift behind him. He braces himself to hear an irritated, tired sigh or to be told that yeah, he’s being stupid and worrying over nothing. It doesn’t pan out, though, and Dean hates how surprised he is when Cas sits down next to him on the edge of the bed. He reaches over to take Dean’s hand and caresses the back of it with a soothing brush of his thumb. 

Looking down at their joined hands, Dean feels his breath catch in his throat.

“You think it’s _stupid_ to feel that way?” Cas asks incredulously, but still manages to sound soft.

“Well—yeah. It’s been months, we’re safe, we’re alive. Our lives are actually pretty damn normal—I mean, apart from the fact that you’re an ex-angel and the kid who killed God is asleep in the next room.” A rough laugh huffs its way out of him. “What the hell do I have to be afraid of when so many other people have it worse?”

“Dean,” Cas starts and turns their hands over, slotting their fingers together. “You’ve spent your life confronting and defeating things that are beyond most people’s comprehension. You’ve saved the world more times than I can count on one hand, and you’ve actually died on just as many occasions. If you think that doesn’t take a toll on a person, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

A scoff sounds from Dean before he can stop it. “But to still be afraid of that stuff _now?_ We’ve spent the last six months living like the damn Brady Bunch and I can’t even get over shit that happened years ago? Come on, Cas, that’s—”

“Normal,” Cas assures him, as he always seems to be able to. He clutches Dean’s hand tighter. “The things that still trouble you, Dean...how can you expect them not to?”

Still staring down at the picture that is Cas’s consoling hand locked together with his, Dean reminds himself to be grateful, and he is. He’s grateful that Cas is here with him, alive, to be saying everything he needs to hear. 

“I love you,” he says, “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do.”

Dean knows that given all their close calls, he should’ve by now learned the importance of saying what he feels. He should’ve learned to say it, scream it, fucking sing it, but he hasn’t. He’s starting to think he’ll get there, though.

There’s Cas’s thumb skating across his skin again, and although it makes him feel like a teenage girl with a crush, Dean hopes he never loses the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat at the gesture.

A light but lingering kiss falls against his temple and Dean turns his head to catch Cas’s eye as he pulls away. The smile tugging at his lips manages to be discreet and blinding all the same. 

Cas’s lips part, and Dean’s already chasing the words he’s about to say when he’s cut off by the undignified sound of a toilet flushing from a room over.

“Jack’s up,” Dean smiles, dragging a hand down his face languidly.

“Yeah.” Cas gives Dean’s hand a final squeeze before letting go. “I’ll go get breakfast on. Don't forget, Sam and Eileen are coming over for lunch, too.” 

He stands, grabbing a robe from the hook on the back of their door before turning back to Dean to shoot a parting smile his way.

Cas tugs the door open, about to leave when Dean calls him back. “Cas?”

“Yeah?” 

“Sorry for being such a mess. I’m gonna, you know, work on it.” Dean grimaces around the words as they leave his mouth.

A smile tinged with unconcealable sadness forms on Cas’s lips and he fixes Dean with a stare. Dean can practically see the cogs turning in Cas’s mind, and he braces himself for whatever profound feel-good speech Cas is about to spout. 

His heart is pretty much shocked still when Cas simply says, “you’re the bravest person I know. Remember that.”

Without another word, Cas leaves the room and Dean is alone, the statement hanging in the air. 

Dean isn’t fine. He knows there’ll be other nights where he dreams that his world’s falling apart around him and that there’s nothing he can do. He’ll go on double and triple checking the locks before they turn in every night and making sure his gun’s still strapped firmly to the underside of their bed. 

Although, he also considers how Cas will be there to bring him round from those bone shaking nightmares, to bear with him while he tediously double and triple checks that they’re safe and secure. 

Cas will be there to call him brave when he needs to hear it and Dean figures that at some point, in the end, he just might be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
